


Children of Lhant

by Windian



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Politics, Shipping Second Suffering First, Tales of Whump Week, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: "I care not for his reasons. If King Richard does not put a stop to his current behavior, then I will be left with no choice but to kill him myself."Hubert follows through on his warning, and the fate of a kingdom is left hanging in the balance.





	1. sins of the brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gargant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gargant/gifts).



> This jolly little tale is written for Tales of Whump Week, day one: wounds, found on tumblr: https://taleswhumpweek.tumblr.com/post/175679895575/do-you-like-seeing-your-favourite-character-in
> 
> The quote in the summary comes from this skit, Sins of the Brother: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCG2zcQ2QMI
> 
> I'm dedicating this one to Gargant, who came up with the original premise for this fic, and let me run wild with it. Thank you Gargant! <3

It takes only a moment for an entire world to change.

So it had been when Hubert had decided to follow Asbel up to Lhant hill, and again, when his father told him of his adoption into the Oswell family.

That heavy weight sits on Hubert’s chest again: the knowledge that things have irrevocably changed, and can never return to how they were.

King Richard is dead, his head haloed by a pool of his own blood, the evidence of the deed on Hubert’s own blade.

There’s a silence ringing in Hubert’s ears: he told himself he must be prepared for this eventuality, but now it’s done, he can’t think. He can’t concentrate. His mouth has gone dry.

“Richard’s not moving,” Sophie says. She stares down at the body, her face blank, uncomprehending.

The Captain puts his arm around her, tries to steer her away. “You don’t need to see this, Sophie.”

She pulls away. “But why?”

“He’s…” the Captain’s voice deepens, “gone to the same place Kurt went, Sophie. He won’t be coming back.”

Cheria lets her healing light fade from her fingers and sits back. The Fendelian delegation are there too, as well as Chancellor Eigen, Pascal going to head them off. Poisson is with her, although he never noticed her arrive. But Hubert can’t think about that right now.

They’d only just managed to avert the crisis with the valkines before Richard arrived and tried to drain it of its eleth. Sophie engaged him, but it wasn’t enough. Asbel wrung his hands uselessly. For all his training, he was soft and weak, and could never hurt a friend. Hubert had no choice; he’d take the burden upon himself. Richard swung at him, wild and crazed, no trace of the boy he knew as a child left inside him. Something had overtaken Richard, and it mattered not _what_ , only that he was stopped.

He fought only to disable, but Richard left an opening, and Hubert took it. Even in his dying breath, collapsing to his knees, Richard found no peace against his madness. He cursed Hubert, cursed Asbel for his betrayal, spitting blood and phlemn.

“You’ll pay for this. You’ll pay!” he rasped. “Don’t think you have defeated me!”

The words left an eerie chill upon Hubert’s skin, raising goosebumps. Was King Richard so mad he thought he could best death itself?

“Hubert, how could you?” the cry is wrenched out of Asbel, his hands scooping up fistfuls of his brother’s jacket. “You didn’t have to do that. We could have still talked sense into him— we could have—”

Hubert swallows down the dry feeling. An unnatural calm overtakes him. None of this seems quite real. “Talked sense into him? Perhaps, pray tell, you could explain how. Since it worked so well in Lhant and in—”

Asbel strikes him so hard his knocks his glasses askew, the force of his fist breaking bone. Hubert feels the delicate cartilage in his nose _snap_. He reaches a hand up, to stifle the flow of gushing blood.

“ _Enough_ ,” calls the Captain in a roar, putting his body between the two brothers. His face is fierce, nostrils flared. “Do you think this is the time or place for this?”

“Please,” says Sophie, her voice soft, “no more fighting. I can’t stand it.”

Asbel’s face falls, hands dropping limply by his side. He steals a swift, guilty glance at his brother. Hubert doesn’t look at him. Cheria gently eases his face out of the protective cradle of his bloodied fingers.

“Oh, Hubert…” she says, and warmth flows from her fingers, muting the excruciating pain from his nose.

“Thank you,” he says, stiff, the words deep and nasal.

With the anger goes the life in Asbel’s eyes. “It’s okay, Sophie,” he says, sinking down by her side beside Richard. He reaches over to close Richard’s eyes. No touch of madness in him now. He could merely be sleeping. There’s a heaviness in Asbel’s voice that doesn’t belong in an eighteen year old boy: “Everything’s over, now.”

In the frozen heart of the glacier, the king of Windor lays dead, and silence reigns across the ice.

 

Black flags hang lifeless in Barona.

Kings seem in short supply these days, for the people of Windor have lost three in just one year.

Whispers abound in the city.

They say King Richard went mad and drained the valkines of its eleth, and that’s why the wind has stopped, and the flags no longer fly.

They say he was killed in Fendel, murdered.

They say it was a soldier of Strahta that did it.

They say ill tidings come in threes, so perhaps they’ll have a king now that lasts more than a single season.

Although the populace of Barona care little who sits in a gilded chair as long as there is bread on the table, there are rumblings from the city’s underbelly: its aristocracy.

Ladies and lords, pray sharpen you knives, for the game is to begin again, and the stakes are as high as you can make them.

The wind has dropped, and unease has slipped like a chill sea-mist into the heart of Barona.

 

With the leverage of Poisson and the Amarcian enclave, they secure passage back to Barona. Pascal and the Captain stay in Fendel, Pascal to scour the library of knowledge, and Captain Malik to bury his friend. Asbel entreats Cheria and Sophie to return to the manor at Lhant, but they follow him to Barona, anyway. Asbel expected no less.

They can find no direct boat to Strahta, so Hubert travels with them His nose bandaged and glasses set an angle, sometimes Asbel feels him stealing a glance at him. He can’t bear to look at him. He sets his teeth together so hard his jaw aches, and looks straight ahead as the ship ploughs through the waves. If he had, he’d see the bags underneath Hubert’s eyes, proof neither of them have been sleeping. Asbel’s never suffered from seasickness, but now his stomach roils. He sees Richard’s blond hair, sprawled across the ice. So much _blood_ . What could they have done differently? What could _he_ have done? The ship rocks, and sleepless, Asbel watches the stars cartwheel across the sky through the porthole in his cabin as the night aches on.

The rumours of King Richard’s death travel fast, faster than the ferry-ship. By time time it docks in Barona port, they’re met by Duke Dalen and the knights.

“Lord Asbel,” he says, “we have heard rumours, of King Richard.”

The grim look on Asbel’s face says it all. “Richard— _the body_ — is on the ship. We packed it with ice to stop it from— from going off. Will you help me bring him back to the castle?”

Dalen’s face falls. For all the man has seemed to have distrusted Asbel, he truly cared for Richard. Perhaps, he was one of the few living who did. “I will need a full report.”

“And you’ll get one. But first I want to bring Richard home.”

“I understand.”

Citizens turn to look as the knights carry an unmarked wooden crate through the city towards the castle. Asbel insists on taking one corner, hefting the heavy weight up upon his shoulder. In another life, he would have been one of them, and this would have been his burden. Perhaps he still is, for even in the deepest grip of his madness Asbel had still longed to return his King’s side.

 

There is no heir apparent. Neither Richard nor Cedric left note of their successor, and the late King Ferdinand had left the throne to his son. If Richard was too young to rule in his own name, Lord Aston of Lhant was to rule as regent until he came of age. This is good news to the king’s retainers, until it comes to light that Aston, too, is dead.

“So what does this mean?” Asbel asks. “Will you rule as regent?”

He asked out of curiosity, but his heart already called to return to Lhant. He’d spent so many years running from the place of his birth, but now so much had been lost. He felt the need to gather together everything and everyone he had left. To grieve. To grow something, perhaps, and think of flowers and rain.

But even Lhant had been lost. Did the Strahtan military still hold power? And would the people of Lhant even _want_ him back, besides?

What purpose did he have left?

“As much as I’m loathe to admit it,” Dalen says, and the manner of his speech is pained, “by process of elimination, the regency will fall to _you_ , young Lord. King Ferdinand never amended the frustrating little piece of law that would see your father look after the throne while Richard was unable. He trusted Lord Aston a great deal.”

The look Dalen gives him makes Asbel very sure he does _not_ feel the same way about his son.

“Wait— me?” Asbel sits up straight, ram-rod in his chair. “But surely, I’m… I mean, you’ve been ruling as regent until now, surely you’re the best candidate…” he opens his palms out, helplessly. What does he know about ruling? He hadn’t even been able to hold Lhant from his own brother.

“Well, be that as it may, we must bend to King Ferdinand’s wishes.” If Dalen is disgruntled to see the regency swept out from under his feet, he shows only a trace of it.

“I— I didn’t know King Ferdinand trusted my father so much.”

“Indeed. They were very close, for a time. I’m surprised you’re unaware, considering the sword you carry.”

Asbel wilts into his seat. What _had_ he known about his father?

“I really don’t know the slightest thing about running a country.”

“I am aware,” Dalen says, rather dryly. “You needn’t concern yourself, Lord Asbel. This is just a temporary formality while the next true successor is chosen— which may admittedly take some time. I shall be here to advise you.”

“Oh… right,” says Asbel, unhappily.

“We will hold a short ceremony tomorrow, then, if that’s acceptable to you. We’ll need to think of a suitable title. Lord Protectorate of the realm, perhaps.”

“Right. Yeah, of course,” Asbel says, a sick sinking feeling in his stomach.

“There’s much we must discuss tomorrow, but it’s been a long day. I believe the maids will have finished preparing your chambers by now.”

With that, Asbel is dismissed.

 

Asbel has never visited Richard’s chambers, but it doesn’t take too long to realise whose room he now finds himself in. Richard’s old practice swords hang on the wall, the leather on the handles worn down by hours of sparring. His old shirts still hang in the closet. Richard is everywhere, and he’s nowhere at all. The realisation hits Asbel hard in the chest: he’ll never see his friend again.

Alone, Asbel lets his knees buckle, grabbing fistfuls of the King’s coverlets. Even then, he can’t escape Richard, for his scent has crept into the bedsheets. Even: into his own skin.

Rat-atat-tat. There’s a knock at the door.

“Asbel, can I come in?”

It’s Sophie.

Quickly as he can, Asbel puts himself back together. Even if all the pieces don’t quite fit. By the time she’d poked her head around the door, Asbel is sat up on the bed, managing a weak smile.

“Hey.”

“Asbel.” She stands in the doorway in her nightdress, peering about. “Is this Richard’s room?”

Asbel nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

She takes a few steps in. “Does that mean you’re the new king now, Asbel?”

He chuckles. He has no choice: the situation is too absurd to do anything _but_.

Lord Protectorate. What a joke. He hadn’t been able to protect anything.

“No, I’m just going to be looking after Barona while they choose the next king. It’s kinda complicated.”

Sophie perches up next to him on the bed. “Couldn’t you just draw straws? Like you and Hubert and the Captain did?”

“That was about a jam tart though, Sophie. Not a kingdom.”

She stares at him.

“I’ll, uh, put it to them.”

She nods, satisfied. “Cheria is staying in my room, but I couldn’t find Hubert. Where is he?”

“Who knows?” Asbel says. “High tailed it back to Strahta, probably.” Anger twists his words into something ugly, and he regrets it as soon as they leave his lips.

“Asbel…”

He can’t think of Hubert now, not about what he’d done, and the sickening crunch of bones as Asbel had struck him. He’d wanted never to exchange blows with his brother again. It was all too raw to think of: the blood hadn’t yet dried. He wanted to sleep.

“Was there anything you needed, Sophie?” he asks, a strain in his voice. “Couldn’t sleep? These rooms are kinda crazy big, huh?”

“I had a dream. But it wasn’t a nice one,” she says.

“Your first nightmare, huh?”

“The Captain told me dreams aren’t real. Is that the same for nightmares?” Something fearful flickers on Sophie’s face, and for her, Asbel pushes his own nightmares aside.

“That’s right.” He puts a hand on her head. “They’re just your brain, trying to keep itself busy while it’s asleep. They don’t mean anything. So don’t worry, okay?”

Sophie nods, but she doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“Did you want to stay here with me tonight?” Asbel asks instead.

“I can?”

“I mean, I could probably fit half a dozen people in this bed, so.”

She leans into his touch. “Thanks, Asbel.”

Even if he’d failed at everything else, he still had Sophie. She needed him, even if no one else did. He vowed to protect her, even from nightmares.

 


	2. places where we walked

For a time, crows had made their perch on the roof by Hubert and Asbel’s childhood bedroom. Loud and raucous, their morning dawn call infuriated Asbel, who took to chasing the things down, out on the dew-wet grass in his pyjamas. He’d return, red-faced, the hems of his pyjama bottoms soggy, cursing the birds. “There’s a whole flock of them! Why can’t they just buzz off already?”

“Murder,” Hubert replied. He’d long since given up on sleep— his brother had made more noise shouting at the birds than the birds did. He figured it at least gave him more time to work on his homework.

“Huh! I guess they might make a good pie.”

“No, I mean a flock of crows is called a murder. Like a group of fish is called a shoal.”

Asbel had fallen back on his bed, exhausted. “You sure are a know-it-all, Hubert.”

 

Odd, how this little tidbit comes back to Hubert now, when he wakes early in the inn in Barona. No crows in Yu Liberte. The raucous dawn call is strangely soothing; he could be back in his childhood bed in Lhant, with little else to worry about than homework from his tutor. But filtering in with the morning light, thin, translucent, comes the memories. Hubert is a long way from home.

A murder. His mouth twists into something uncomfortable and sour.

He’d been up late, penning his report for the president. Given the sensitive matter it contained, he’d need to deliver it directly into his care. Hubert presses his palms up against his eyes hard enough that even when he puts on his glasses, light and dark skip across the room, sunlight on water. He too feels thin, translucent.

“You’re up early, sir. Do you want me to fix you some breakfast before you go?”

One of the maids catch him as he attempts to slip out. Someone solid against the grey early morning. Smiling, eager to please.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you—” Hubert says.

“No trouble at all,” she replies. “Have a seat. I won’t be long. It’s a fair trip back to Strahta, isn’t it?”

If he’s honest with himself, which he rarely is, Hubert wouldn’t mind the company.

“Quite,” he replies. “I’d hoped to catch a boat last night, but I missed the last ferry.”

He settles down with a cup of coffee as she sets to work. The warm sounds of domesticity are welcome. The strong flavour of the coffee grounds him.

The maid speaks over the sizzle of bacon: “Smart move, getting out of Barona now.”

Hubert’s head jerks up. “How so?”

“Well, with the King dead, no one knows what’s going to happen. Could be another coup. Uncertain times.”

“King Richard,” Hubert says, gazing into his coffee cup, “was he well-liked?”

“No one really knew him,” the woman says, as the bacon spits. “Last time I saw him, he was a tiny thing hiding behind his mother’s skirts. They kept him locked away in the castle.”

Hubert thinks of the little boy Asbel had coaxed from the darkness of his bedroom. How that quiet, reserved and unhappy boy had bloomed into someone else under the sun.

“Maybe there was always something wrong with him, and that’s why they kept him locked away. Royal blood lends to madness, I’ve heard.”

Hubert makes a noncommittal sound. He’d seen no traces of madness in Richard a a child. A deep unease gnaws at his stomach; something does not seem to add up.

He eats the rest of his breakfast in silence. Tips generously. The sooner he’s back in Yu Liberte, where there are no crows, the better.

It feels wrong to disappear with nary a goodbye to his brother, Cheria and Sophie, but the thought of facing them— facing Asbel— makes him regret his breakfast. He presses two fingers to his nose. Cheria’s magic has hastened its healing, but the break is still painful and tender.

Later, he’ll write to Asbel. Given enough time, he may even figure out what to say.

 

*

 

Sleep eludes Asbel. In the giant King-sized bed that had once belonged to Richard, he tosses and turns. When he sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of running, always too slow, always too late. He wakes in a cold sweat, and bolts up in a panic to make sure Sophie’s still there, she’s still breathing. Only when he’s assured of the rise and fall of her chest does Asbel settle back to slumber: back to dreams and running. He wakes twice, three times, countless times, to at last roll over and find Sophie awake, sitting on the windowsill. It’s early, still before dawn, with the first tentative grey light brightening the horizon.

The huge room feels at once too small, heavy lead weighing down on his chest.

“Sophie, I know it’s early— but would you walk with me?”

Sophie pulls herself away from the city before dawn, but some part of her lingers, the look in her eyes far-away. “Yes, Asbel.”

She follows him without question, a silent companion at his side as they make their way through the city, to the dim Valkines, the knight academy, and out the gates onto the north road to Orlen. Asbel walks on, searching for something.

How different Barona looks, before the dawn. The different quantity of light, and the shadows they cast. Seven years Asbel has lived in this city, but now it seems new, alien. Or perhaps it’s he himself who has changed, or been changed. The rosy lens of a romantic ideal has been cast aside. He’s no longer a lord’s son, or a knight-in-training, or Richard’s right-hand man. He’s Asbel, only Asbel, and the early morning chill creeps into him, filling the spaces left hollow. He shivers.

Asbel doesn’t speak until they reach the end of the north road, to where the hillside overlooks the rambling valleys out past Orlen.

Why is it that men fight? Why must all arguments turn to war?

“It’s strange,” he says. “I remember it all so well. I forgot so many things from when I was a kid, but those memories are so vivid. That time we spent together with Richard. It’s like the memories are still here, like I could pull them out of the air. Y’know?” He directs his gaze towards Sophie, who stares back at him. He speaks urgently: “You remember when we came here, right Sophie?”

She nods. “Yes. You and Hubert and Cheria and Richard were very short. Richard said he wanted to show you this place.” Here, she hesitates. Comes out of herself. “But I didn’t really understand why, back then.”

She sits on the hillside, hair dragging through the grass, still damp with dew. Asbel sits beside her.

“How about now?” he asks.

“I think… it’s because it’s a place he wanted to protect.”

“I think you might be right.”

Asbel often wondered what kind of home the castle was to Richard— with its scheming, backstabbing, intrigues. To him, these rolling hills and mountains were Windor. The Windor he wanted to protect and guide to a better future.

There’s no suffering, no pain. Only beauty.

“For so many years, whenever I had a bad day, or when I got my butt kicked in training, I thought about what Richard said that day. About the world he wanted to create, free from war and strife. I… I guess I’d always hoped that I’d get to help him.”

Asbel lets his head rest against his knees. “I just don’t understand. The world is more divided than ever. I know that this isn’t what Richard wanted. I don’t understand why this had to happen. Or what I’m supposed to do now.” Hands and eyes squeeze shut against the burning, stinging feeling balling behind his eyelids. He can’t cry— can’t be weak— can’t--

“Asbel.”

There’s a gentle touch against his head.

“It’s OK, Asbel.”

He recalls a sudden rain shower outside Lhant, after his brother had banished him. She’d been there for him back then, too.

“Sophie, you can’t keep comforting me like this,” he says, lifting his head, raising his mouth into a tentative smile. “It’s getting embarrassing.”

“Why?” she asks.

The sun is rising. Light bleeds onto the horizon, spills out like oil on water. It catches, and above the blue mountains burns a bright evanescent red.

“That sure is something,” he says.

It looks like something worth protecting.

You can do it, Richard. When you’re king, you can create any kind of world you want.

Even if Richard’s gone, perhaps Asbel can carry on his dream. Maybe this is what he’s meant for, to carry on his king’s legacy.

 

 

“Asbel,” Sophie says, “are many birds green?”

He doesn’t know where she found the thing, but somewhere between returning to the castle and meeting in the sitting room for breakfast, Sophie has acquired a bird.

A green bird.

It perches on her wrist, perfectly tame.

“I don’t think that’s a bird, Sophie. It looks like one of Pascal’s communicators.” Except that the last time he’d seen the thing, Pascal had given it to Hubert.

“Oh. Do you have a message for us, Mr Bird?”

The birds opens its beak and speaks, its voice oddly mechanical and clipped: “This is Lieutenant Hubert Oswell speaking. I have been arrested by the knights. Please send request for aid to President Paradine via the Strahtan consulate. Over.”

 

If anyone knows anything about this, it’ll be Dalen.

Breakfast half-finished, Asbel hurries down the castle’s corridors. Corridor after corridor, opening like a series of Chinese boxes, unending. When he finds Dalen, it’s in his quarters, having his weekly trim and tidy.

“Dalen. I need to speak with you.”

The barber starts suddenly to see Asbel burst into the room, hair askew and butter on his shirt.

“Is this about the ceremony, young Lord? You’d best get yourself ready for it, we’re due to start at noon.” In the mirror, Asbel can see Dalen disparagingly taking in his flushed cheeks and stained dress-shirt.

“It’s not. It’s— can we speak privately?”

“Certainly. After my morning shave.”

The barber, looking rather put-out by the interruption, returns to work. Asbel paces by the window. Dalen makes no mention to hurry the barber’s work. Instead, he almost seems to enjoy keeping Asbel waiting.

When at last, the barber finishes, he whisks off the towel from round Dalen’s neck and departs, offering Dalen a short bow and Asbel and dirty look. Leisurely, straightening out his cuffs, Dalen stands to face him.

“Now, Lord Asbel, what can I do for you?”

“I received word from my brother this morning. He’s been arrested by the knights.”

“Ah, that,” says Dalen.

Asbel speaks more pointedly: “I feel there must be some misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding? Why, it was you yourself who informed me of the King’s death, and the part Lieutenant Oswell played in it.”

Asbel opens his mouth, but no words come out. The sick, sinking feeling is back again, as though his stomach has dropped clean out of his body.

“But—” he splutters, “sir, I don’t agree with my brother’s actions, but Richard was trying to drain Fendel’s valkines.”

“Yes? Fendel themselves are guilty of numerous forays into our territory. They are no innocent victim. Furthermore, Lieutenant Oswell is a member of the Strahtan military, and we have reason to believe he was working directly under the orders of President Paradine. The same man, you’ll recall, who ordered the annexation of your hometown, a sovereign member state of Windor.”

Heat rises under Asbel’s collar. “The same sovereign state that was completely ignored during both of those things? Windor has never cared about Lhant.” A fine time to start caring about his hometown now, after the fact.

“Irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that regicide is treason, and must be treated as such. There will be an enquiry held into the matter, and if your brother was in fact justified in his actions, no harm will come to him.”

“I could order his release,” Asbel says, an odd sentence to leave his lips. The only people he’d ever ordered were his kid brother and rag-tag group of friends in Lhant, a mantle he’d thrown off long ago.  

Dalen regards him more warily. “Young Lord, as your advisor, I suggest you let me advise you. You will not do yourself any favours by letting Lieutenant Oswell walk free with no investigation, especially when said Lieutenant is your brother. You seem convinced of his innocence. Let it be proven by law. You cannot let your feelings towards your kin bias you, Lord Asbel. Would you let any other man commit regicide-- kill our one true king-- and walk free?”

“I…”

“It’s for the best, Lord Asbel.” His voice softens now, allowing a glimpse of the man behind the grooming, the chill gaze and fierce loyalty to the crown. “I know you cared for King Richard, as did I. We must let justice run its course.”

“I… yes. I suppose you’re right,” Asbel says.

He had warned Hubert not to go ahead with his plan. Yet his imploring had done nothing. It would be right that Hubert should face justice for his actions. Logical. Hubert had always loved logic. Claimed he was the reckless one.

So despite that, why does his chest feel so tight?

 

Asbel adorns a crown to match his heavy heart. It presses down on his temples like an oncoming migraine, digs in above his ears.

“Rise now, for the Lord Protector of the realm.”

A fluid motion, the knights raise their swords in salute. May the wind guide their blades. What bizarre twist of fate had led him to stand here, by the throne, instead of amongst their ranks?

The light reflects of their polished silver shields, dazzles. Asbel searches the crowd for Cheria and Sophie, a familiar face to anchor himself to. Spying a flash of purple, he makes to raise his hand in greeting. But it vanishes into the jostling crowd, carried away by the current, and Asbel lets his hand drop. He too, is carried away.

  



End file.
